


Breathe Him Back

by RobinPlaysTrumpet15



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 23:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20665595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinPlaysTrumpet15/pseuds/RobinPlaysTrumpet15
Summary: "The wildlings believe that the Gods can be heard in the sounds of nature, such as the wind, and that they can see through the eyes of the weirwood trees. So long as the trees remain in the land, the Gods have power. They also believe that the Gods hear their prayers and that they answer by sending the wind or through other means."- Game of Thrones Wiki on the Old Gods of the ForestAfter the battle against the Boltons, Jon has to take a moment alone in the godswood, unknowingly sending a prayer to the gods.





	Breathe Him Back

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! So this is my second Game of Thrones story that I've posted on here and I'm actually really proud of it. Thank you to my big brother, my beta reader. He's amazing as always.
> 
> I was having trouble tagging this story. If you find anything, especially in regards to triggers, that you think should be tagged, please let me know.
> 
> Also, this story is not supposed to be subtle with any suspense. It's very heavy-handed, I will admit that. So if you're looking for a lot of subtle gods magic and suspense, this is not the story for you, lol. But if you want a relatively quick, interesting fix-it for Robb's death, please read on.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like this!

There were a lot of things that needed doing. Too many things. Bodies needed burned, Winterfell needed repairs. Now that they even had Winterfell, they needed to worry about getting an army together if they were to stand any sort of chance against the White Walkers. Somewhere in the back of Jon’s mind, he knew the Lannisters were in the South, probably plotting their revenge now that the Boltons were dead. But that didn’t matter. Sam was still at the Citadel, hopefully. Tormund had asked Jon where he could get the Free Folk set up long term while they prepared for the upcoming winter. Sansa had other concerns. Ramsay was still alive, but then again, Sansa would worry about that one. Thankfully.

That made one thing off Jon’s list of a thousand or more that still needed doing.

And yet, Jon found himself in the godswood, secluded all by himself and surrounded by trees. Around him, the woods were alive. The trees almost seemed to breathe in the air, wind breathing breezes through their tops. The weirwood tree stood mangled and tall before him.

Jon himself had sunk to his knees at the roots of the great heart tree. The face stared at him with blank eyes that saw a lot more than just Jon. Its blood red tears of sap leaked down the pale bark, staining it crimson.

All around him, the Old Gods of the Forest spoke in their ancient and forgotten languages. Languages that only the Children of the Forest and the First Men would have known now, if any still lived. Jon could nearly convince himself that they were watching him, whispering on the breeze that ruffled his hair. They listened and watched, waiting to see what it is Jon has come for. Why a bastard would come to their sacred tree, their eyes, and sit in their presence.

Jon joined them in their wondering. What had brought him here? He was still gross, covered in the muck and gore of battle; had hardly even bothered to wipe an ungloved hand across his face. He had a million things to take care of, men and lords and ladies awaiting his instructions. Even though Jon was never supposed to be in this position. He wasn’t trained to be a lord or a commander, to lead armies or command castles. That had been Robb, and even Bran and Rickon to a certain extent, given their ages.

But Robb had been good at this. Robb had been named King in the North by some of the very men Jon had seen milling about and arriving through the front gates. Robb had been _born_ for this.

Jon was never supposed to be born.

And yet, here they were, sitting in reversed positions. Jon was leading more people than he had ever even wanted to talk to before in his life. And Robb wasn’t even here.

Robb was dead. Maybe buried in an unmarked grave. Maybe burned. Maybe worse…

Robb’s face swam to the forefront of his mind. Jon had been afraid, many months, years, before that he would forget. He had thought that one day he might lose the exact curve of Robb’s smile, the bright shade of blue of his eyes, how his red curls would be extra fluffy in the morning and how they would flatten in the rain.

A stab of grief pierced through Jon’s chest. He had expected the image of Robb’s smile (his freckles, his nose, his laugh) to be gone by now. But sitting in the godswood, only the gods and the weirwood tree to judge him, Jon remembered. He remembered everything, every tiny detail.

And in the sight of the gods, Jon cried.

He cried and sobbed, panting and hyperventilating, Robb’s face giving way to Rickon’s, scared with wide eyes looking to Jon to save him - looking for a miracle. Expecting Jon to be the big brother Rickon had always thought him to be. Rickon’s face melted into Bran’s. Sweet little Bran who would never walk again. Bran who might not be dead but probably was. And then Arya, fierce and strong and determined. Arya who would never be a lady if she had anything to say about it.

Then - Sansa. Sansa who used to look around her and see the world in a haze of rose gold. Sansa who believed in love stories and fairy tales, but only the good ones. Sansa who wanted to be a queen and raise perfect little princes and princesses. And she may not be dead now, but that Sansa was gone. This Sansa had seen more shit than anyone deserved. She had gone through horrors and survived abuses and atrocities that Jon didn’t even want to imagine.

And here was Jon, one sibling left, having some sort of breakdown and crying like a child in the face of a weirwood tree. He almost hoped the gods weren’t listening; that they had taken their leave and had left him alone in his grief.

It took him longer than Jon would have liked to collect himself. And when he finally did, the tears on his face helped to wipe away the grime. Then he stood himself up, feeling eyes on him. The wind picked up with more whispers than before, blowing his hair and the leaves around him every which way.

As Jon trekked his way back through the godswood, he thought that perhaps the gods had not left him after all.

*

Days passed. Jon learned to keep the trembles in his limbs contained to his core. He kept the tears at bay until he found his pillow damp, late at night. People asked him a lot of questions, and Jon usually found a way to give them an answer. If nothing else, he’d figured out how to prepare soldiers for a fight. And that was one of the biggest things they were doing right now - training men and women, anyone strong enough to hold a blade.

Jon was named King in the North, just as Robb had been. Except that this was so much different. Jon had heard about the first time, about how Robb had been declared king by his bannermen in the middle of a war around a planning table in a military encampment. But this, this was different, and yet so similar. They were looking death square in the face, but at least this time they were in a castle. That was Jon’s only comfort.

It had only been a week or so, maybe eight days, since the battle against the Boltons. Most of the inhabitants of the castle were sequestered inside her thick stone walls. Outside a late summer storm raged. Someone must not have informed summer that is was winter already. Winter had come, and yet they were stuck inside, listening to the winds as they buffeted freezing rain and sleet against the window panes. Lightning lit up the sky in fantastical displays, followed by great booms of thunder. A few of them had Jon nearly jumping out of his skin.

As he paced down to the great hall, he thought idly to himself that someone must have royally pissed off the gods. He hoped it wasn’t any of his men.

It was after noon by the time Jon noticed a commotion. A flash of lightning streaked through the world, lighting up every window in the castle and almost blinding Jon for a second, immediately followed by a harsh rumble. The sound of it shook the world, rattling Jon all the way down to his bones.

There were people rushing everywhere, and outside the windows, he could see them running through the courtyard. Jon frowned. Don’t they know anything? They should be inside.

He quickened his pace, rushing for the door. It was hanging wide open, people shouting every which way. No one paid the new King in the North any mind as they continued about, yelling things and running for cover.

A large form appeared through the haze of the pelting sleet. It ran closer, soaked red hair coming into view. Jon sighed a breath of relief. Tormund.

“What’s happening?!” He yelled to the man.

The wildling paused for just a moment, glancing over Jon quickling.

“Strike. In the godswood.” He seemed almost out of breath, shouting to be heard.

Dread filled Jon’s chest. Not the godswood. A strike of lightning could burn it to the ground.

“Fire?!”

Tormund shrugged, taking another step to continue on his way. His direction might have been for the entrance to the godswood. “No one’s sure!”

A fire could be detrimental…

Without another further thought, Jon was on Tormund’s heels.

They could hardly see anything for the dark around them and the thick density of the trees. It was unnerving, sending chills down Jon’s spine that had nothing to do with the freezing rain soaking his clothes and leathers. But nothing around them looked to be on fire. No trees were ablaze, no wood cracked and popped in heat.

Jon took the lead, barrelling towards the weirwood. The castle would live on without it, but those loyal to the Old Gods felt a deep connection here. If anything happened to it… people would be devastated. _Jon_ would be devastated.

The old, white gnarled bark came into view, its brilliant red leaves whipping about on their branches. The weirwood’s eyes seemed to have begun weeping again, more red sap streaking down into its roots.

In fact, there was a lot of red everywhere. It discolored the soaked moss and dirt around the tree’s roots, creeping up the bark. Another flash of lightning lit the world, giving Jon a split second of clarity.

The pond is what drew his eye. In the moment of light, Jon had seen its color - red. Deep red, as if it wasn’t a pool of water, but one of blood. Jon’s eyes widened at the look of it. The light didn’t stay long enough for Jon to take a long look, but he inched ever closer. Perhaps it had only been a trick of the light. The color of the leaves reflecting on the surface of the water.

But sure enough, as Jon crouched beside the edge, even in this dark Jon could make out the wine deep color.

Something was very, _very_ wrong here.

High above Jon’s head, the winds roared with voices. The trees groaned and cracked in response.

Behind him, he could hear Tormund shout his name.

“Jon! We need cover, now!”

But he couldn’t listen to the man. Everything around them vied for him attention, calling for him to listen to them. The gods wanted something from Jon.

He let his eyes drift back to the pool. An invisible pulled tugged on Jon’s chest, right at his sternum. His hand lifted without his permission, reaching forward to the water. Just a touch. Just one touch. What would happen, he wasn’t sure, but someone - some_thing_ \- out there wanted Jon to touch the water.

The very tip of his finger broke the surface and the entire world rattled around and broke apart then stilled very suddenly.

The winds ceased, the trees stilled, the thunder rumbled off into nothingness.

_Breathe_, a voice whispered through the air.

_Breathe._ Another joined the first.

Then another. _Breathe_

And another. _Breathe_

_Breathe_

_Breathe!_

_Breathe!_

_Breathe!_

_BREATHE!_

All the voices quieted, leaving Jon with a very empty hole sitting in his chest and an awareness of being exceptionally alone.

Jon counted his breaths, the sounds loud in the silent wood.

In and out. One.

In and out. Two.

In and out. Three.

In and out. Four.

In-

A head, then a body, crashed through the surface of the water.

Jon shouted, startling and throwing himself away from the water’s edge.

The person in the water gasped horrendously, fighting through the blood red water, disoriented. Jon almost wanted to help, not wanting this person to drown, but he was frozen in place. He was scared - frightened. Which, his logical mind would whisper later, was perfectly reasonable given the circumstances.

After a half minute of struggle, one of the man’s, for he was indeed a man, hands found the grass at the water’s edge and clung to it like a lifeline. His other hand came up to grasp the soft green blades as well. He used all his might to pull himself from the water and roll up onto the forest floor.

The man was naked, not a scrap of clothing covering him. His pale skin dripped with water colored like blood, and Jon wondered idly if he perhaps was injured and bleeding. His hair was red, stuck down flat to his head and across his face from what Jon could tell.

Jon couldn’t shake the feeling that he should know this man, though he hadn’t gotten a good look at his face yet.

He lay there, gasping and heaving deep, heavy breaths. Rain hit them all over, slowing from its torrential downpour to a substantial drizzle. Jon thought this was almost worse. But it helped to rinse the discolored water from the man’s body.

Jon figured he should do something. But for the life of him, he couldn’t think. And for whatever capacity his brain could work with, all it wondered was what had just happened. How had a man just appeared out of the pool in Winterfell’s godswood? What was with this storm that had near ceased as Jon touched the water? Why was the water red, anyhow?

What if this man was dangerous?

_Not_, came an answering whisper, breathed through the trees.

_Go_, another breeze urged him.

_Brother_, the trees creaked together.

The man’s breaths slowed as he calmed, his limbs beginning to shift and twitch experimentally.

_Brother_

_Go to him_

_Brother_

_Help him_

_Brother_

_Breathe_

_Brother_

_Brother_

_Help_

_Brother_

The winds whispered around him, blowing low through the trunks of the trees. They stopped abruptly, followed by the ghost of a draft that sighed one thing. One name.

_Robb_

The man gasped a sharp, harsh intake of air and sat bolt upright, coughing up another lungful of water. When he was through, he looked around, pushing himself to his knees and turning on shaky limbs.

His body was toned, though it still had a youthful figure to it, filling out but not yet full grown. With the red water disappearing, Jon could make out the freckles that peppered the man’s shoulders and down his arms, up his neck. His eyes were blue as they darted around the trees, searching frantically for anything, anything familiar.

When they landed on Jon, he lost his breath again.

He knew those blue eyes. Realization crashed into him like a boulder. He knew that red hair, soaked and flat, curling in every which way at the ends. He knew that face, the defined cheekbones and the Stark-hard set to his jaw.

The man’s croaky and scratched-up voice split the air around them on a single word.

“Jon?”

Jon’s eyes filled with unbidden tears. He almost didn’t care how it was possible. He almost didn’t care that he might just be dreaming. He definitely didn’t care that he was sitting soaked in the godswood, a magical, gods-induced storm having nearly ripped them all apart. This moment - this man - was more important.

“Robb.”

Jon surged forward and threw himself at his brother as Robb attempted the same. They met in a hard embrace, their arms tightening around each other desperately. Robb was still attempting to get his breath back while Jon tried to find his at all. His lungs squeezed hard in his chest, the pain of tightness aching into his ribs.

At the sound of a sob, the pressure released and Jon sucked in a sudden lungful of air.

His hands slipped over Robb’s wet, bare skin. Then suddenly Jon was reminded his brother was naked, and probably freezing. He sat back and pulled his cloak roughly from his shoulders. Never mind that it was soaked. Robb needed something to cover him just then.

They didn’t say anything for a long time. Not until a throat cleared itself behind Jon.

Right. Tormund was there.

The man didn’t say a word as Jon stood himself up, Robb firmly in his arms. Though, the cock of his eyebrow did hold a few questions. Jon chose to ignore them.

He kept an arm around his brother's back, his other hand clenched in one of Robb’s own, and led him back through the godswood and towards the castle. Distantly, he hoped that no one saw Robb or recognized him. Not until they could get him inside, warmed, and dressed properly. Not until Jon could figure out for himself whether this was all a dream or magical reality.

They got inside alright with only an odd gaze or two. Most of the people in the courtyard seemed to have found shelter by now, though they were reappearing at the lack of storm. Jon hurried the three of them towards his chambers.

It took a lot of time, a lot of explaining, and more than one meaningful look to get Robb fixed up as he should be.

He didn’t talk much, but Jon figured that was to be expected. Robb had been dead just this morning, he was sure. Jon himself could hardly find the words to speak. Tormund eventually took his leave, realizing that Jon was in no state to be running a castle, and left to get Sansa and take over for the rest of the day. Jon was grateful to him for that, and tried to make a note in the back of his mind to thank the man profusely later.

Hours passed and Jon couldn’t get much out of his brother. Robb didn’t remember much. He remembered the Red Wedding, but after falling to the floor in blackness, nothing until the feeling of suffocating under the water and fighting towards the surface of the pond.

Jon didn’t have any more explanations either. He figured there was much Robb would need to know, but none of that seemed important for now. Not tonight. They were both exhausted, slowing warming by the hearth with its fire.

His brother’s eyes were falling shut eventually as he sat in his chair.

Jon felt the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile, soft and silent. He nudged Robb up out of the chair and directed him across the room, letting him fall onto Jon’s bed. He helped him remove his top layer of clothing and his borrowed boots. Then Jon pulled the furs over him and Robb was out like a light.

He gave it very little thought when he tugged off his extra clothes and boots as well, climbing into the bed next to his brother. They ended up tangled together as they had many times as lads, comforted by one another’s warmth and presence. Jon followed Robb to sleep quickly, tired from the events of the day and all the days leading up to it.

In his dreams, he saw the gods - heard them in the indistinct whispers of voices on the wind, saw them in the towering trees, felt them in the rushing water of babbling brooks.

_“Robb Stark has been brought back,”_ they sighed.

_“At your request…”_

_“Breathe him back to life-”_

_“And he will help bring you success.”_

_“But do not lose him again.”_

_“A gift like this-”_

_“Will not be granted again…”_

Jon woke with a start, opening his eyes to the dark room. The fire had died down significantly, now only glowing embers in the fireplace.

Robb lay tucked up in Jon’s arms, sleeping and seemingly perfectly content.

Jon smiled, laying his head back down on the pillow.

He felt asleep to twin howls somewhere outside, beyond his window.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Once again, please let me know if you thought of anything you think I should tag and I will do my best to accommodate.
> 
> I am thinking about doing a sequel to this story. If you have any thoughts and/or opinions about that, let me know in the comments what you might like to see.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story, and please let me know what you thought! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Thanks!


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